


Chantilly Lace and a Pretty Face

by Chiaroscuro



Category: Crash Pad (2017), Logan Lucky (2017), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Awkward First Times, Awkward Flirting, First Dates, Fluff and Humor, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Recreational Drug Use, Red String of Fate, Sharing a Bed, Small Towns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-11 23:14:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16861876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiaroscuro/pseuds/Chiaroscuro
Summary: “Your nose is always in your line of sight, but your brain chooses to ignore it. For the same reason, you don't focus on the frames of your glasses or the red strings that connect a person to their soulmate. Scientists call it ‘unconscious selective attention’. It would be awfully difficult to function if your eyes were always zipping away from what you need to see and fixating on your bangs across your face or the billions of threads that incorporeally weave together the fabric of fate.”   Smythe, John Norton. Power of unconscious ignorance. Psychology today, May 2002.Stensland just wants to move on. Why won't fate let him?





	Chantilly Lace and a Pretty Face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [groffiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/groffiction/gifts).



> Title is a knot pun and is all Kaylee's fault.
> 
> Dear grof, I hope that you like overused tropes and ridiculous sappiness. I wanted to write and ask you if you did, but my muse had made up its mind so I must instead ask for forgiveness instead of permission. I have never written a kylux-adjacent pairing before, and I haven’t read many Clydeland fics at all, but I love both Clyde and Stensland with all of my shippy little heart and I hope I did them justice. They deserve every bit of happiness.
> 
> Disclaimers: There are only two Lowe’s stores in all of Seattle, and I doubt Stensland even knows they exist. I don’t know how mechanical prosthetics work. The citations and accompanying quotes are made up (except the altered Longfellow poem), and if you try to use them in a research paper you will be laughed out of every professional journal. This fic got completely out of control re: word count; this is not the story where I learn brevity, apparently. I hope you enjoy it anyway. 
> 
> Many thanks to chaos_squirrel, my beta and my soulmate <3

 

 

> _“Your nose is always in your line of sight, but your brain chooses to ignore it. For the same reason, you don't focus on the frames of your glasses or the red strings that connect a person to their soulmate. Scientists call it ‘unconscious selective attention’. It would be awfully difficult to function if your eyes were always zipping away from what you need to see and fixating on your bangs across your face or the billions of threads that incorporeally weave together the fabric of fate.”_ Smythe, John Norton. _Power of unconscious ignorance_ . Psychology today, May 2002 _._

 

Clyde didn’t have much going for him right from the start:  big ears, small eyes, long face, and a stutter that got worse when he was nervous. By the time he graduated high school he had outgrown the stutter, at least. But some things you just don’t outgrow. And poor Clyde, the funny-looking little boy who grew up into a giant of a man, didn’t outgrow hardly anything except for his classmates. Not his stuck-out ears, or crooked eye-teeth, or the way his stomach twisted up kinda funny when boys smiled at him.

 

His brother Jimmy told him how to keep his head down and stay under the radar. Jimmy always had his back like that. Jim was eleven months older, but Clyde was bigger. Neither could remember life without the other. Eventually “flying under the radar” evolved all the way into their hairbrained cauliflower schemes, but it started with keeping his mouth shut about that stomach feeling.

 

Jimmy said the feeling happened when you like-like someone. You can't help who you like-like, but Mama's church friends wouldn't take kindly to learning he like-liked Jake Winters. So when Jimmy said he oughta keep it quiet, Clyde listened and never said a word to anyone.

 

He graduated, not top of his class, but a respectable distance from the bottom. Jimmy had already been working in the mines for almost a year, but Clyde just couldn't settle into that. Darkness and tight spaces made him feel cornered like a wild animal. There weren't too many other options, though. But given the choice between living a life that was barely living at all, and dying for something he wasn't sure he believed in, he picked the one ticket out.

 

“Congratulations, son,” the bulldog-faced man had growled. His heavy uniform and cap seemed like overkill on an August afternoon south of the Mason-Dixon. The tiny storefront squished between a Qwik-E Loan and a Baby Gap was stifling despite the ceiling fan running so hard it rattled on its axis.

 

Clyde thanked him, accepting the proffered handshake even as he watched a fat bead of sweat roll down the recruiter’s neck and under his collar.

 

“Welcome to the United States Army.”

 

> _“Some people don't like the term ‘soulmate’, since it implies that a person is incomplete unless they locate the one other person that the universe has designated for them. The odds are astronomical that you'll ever even meet that person, let alone realize who they are to you. Many don't even try.”_ Lochner, R. M. _When fate won’t come calling._ Bloomberg, 1994.

 

“I'm tired of looking at your stupid face,” a football player growled, breath hot in Stensland’s face, unpleasant even if it wasn’t foul. One hand was clenched at the bully’s side, and the other fisted in Stensland's shirt. Thankfully Stensland was tall and therefore unlikely to be strangled as long as he stayed perched on his toes.

 

“You make me want to vomit,” the brute spat, emphatic spittle blowing Stensland's bangs back.

 

Stensland smiled a lopsided grin. “Is that, by any chance, an activity you enjoy?”

 

As he was shoved hard into a dumpster, he guessed the answer was no.

 

If there was one thing that made a kid unpopular with his peers, it was a funny accent. Coming in at a close second was unusual looks. Stensland, with his Dublin brogue and bright orange hair, had both. He and his Mam had moved to the States when he was fourteen, since apparently she couldn't stand to even be on the same continent as his Da after the divorce.

 

He actually got on fairly well with most people, provided they gave him half a chance. As an added bonus, Americans were marginally less uptight. Unfortunately, bullies were not known for their understanding nature. Stensland hadn’t survived that long without being able to adapt and overcome. Firmly closeted, Stensland continued flirting with the half of the population that was socially acceptable, and after awhile he managed to convince himself that he didn’t even mind ignoring the part of himself that, at age twelve, had him convinced he could never be attracted to any human besides Orlando Bloom.

 

 

> _“Throughout history, the bond forged between soulmates has proven a boone to endeavors well outside of romantic connection. Consider, for example, Alexander and Hephaestian. Could the one have conquered as much of the known world without the other? For it cannot be underestimated the physical power commanded by a man who would trust his mate with his very soul.”_ Bronson, Daniel. _On Soulmates, Vol. III._ Mistletoe Press, 1913.

 

The army, Clyde discerned, cared even more about who you like-liked than Mama’s strictest church friend.

 

Most folks from back home didn't ever make it more than five miles away their whole lives. Hell, some of ‘em died in the same house where they'd been born. Clyde'd thought maybe the army could be his way out. The joke was on him, though; that and the family curse. Not only had his service landed him right back where he started, it took a piece of him with it.

 

He missed his arm nearly every minute of the day. Besides the pain and inconvenience, his little red bow was gone. He wondered if he could find it lying there on the side of a dirt road with the mangled shell of a humvee. Probably not. They’d have salvaged the wreck by now, and without that marker it would almost literally be looking for a specific grain of sand on the beach, if that grain was an incorporeal representation of fate.

 

For awhile he believed it would come back. Prayed it would, anyway. That’s why he started wearing the polymer arm. It wasn’t good for anything useful, and people stared at him with or without it. He wasn’t a small man and he had something of a reputation. Fake as it was, there was a definitive pinkie finger, and it was, technically speaking, his.

 

He practiced imagining the string back in its place tied around his little finger, just like the exercises for managing phantom pain. Pictured it there, right where it’s supposed to be, and imagined his soul didn’t hurt anymore.

 

 

> _“Is there really a place for so-called ‘soulmates’ in modern society? Or a better question, should there be? No woman with half an ounce of self esteem should wait to start her life just in case someone perfect happens to drop into her lap. Ladies, it's time to stand up and say, ‘my soul is not a sock, and it doesn't need a mate!’ ”_  Pitts, Ashlynn. _Screw Soulmates_. Cosmopolitan, 2013.

 

Stensland was man enough to admit that the whole thing with Morgan was not one of his more dignified debacles. It had left him with rather no dignity at all, if you wanted to get particular. And he might still not be the smartest, or the coolest. But God damn he was something, and he was going to make something of himself. He still had a few good years left in his early life.

 

Really, he was owed some sort of a breakdown after the universe screwed him over so thoroughly. You wake up one day at 11 a.m., just like usual, pop in your contacts, and boom! Your soulmate thread is cut. It’s trailing out like always, but it just ends; fades off after a few feet.

 

Things like that just don’t happen. Stensland’s had mates whose partners have died, and their threads didn’t do that. The end wrapped around their finger, no tail anymore. His thread still had a tail, it just...didn’t seem to know where it was going anymore. Stensland didn’t know where he was going either, but he was quite certain fate was supposed to have its shit together better than that. It was downright disconcerting, is what it was.

 

He smoked a bowl or two before brunch and settled in to do some solid googling on the matter. Five or six hours later, he remembered to actually do it. It didn’t take very deep searching to find that this simply was Not a Thing. It happened, though not often, but since science had largely abandoned the threads of fate as too difficult to study and not applicable in the modern era, there was no known cause. It seemed that the cases in antiquity never found their soulmates and therefore couldn’t discover why it happened.

 

Stensland was in crisis mode. Sure, he didn’t hold too deeply to fate anyway; who did? But this, learning he was now unlikely to ever meet his soulmate, well. It was like discovering that Santa isn’t real. And boy, that Christmas had been rough for little fourteen-year-old Stens.

 

It was entirely understandable, then, that Stensland was lost on the great ocean that was love, grasping desperately for any lifeline that would pull him back to shore. After six weeks metaphorically adrift, he met Morgan. She was the love of his life for nearly thirty-eight hours. Then she was married. But maybe her husband was the love of his life? And then they got back together and did not want a third partner, so Stensland was cast back into the sea.

 

Perhaps this country simply didn’t have what he was looking for. Thus, with nothing left to lose, he boarded a plane bound for Ireland.

 

 

> _“Oh Bright Hera! Guide me to the One who holds my heart! My soul longs for completion! Hear me, Goddess! Leave me not in this world alone!”_ Sappho. _Poets Through the Ages: An Anthology._ Red Dirt Press, 1987.

 

He was dragged from a peaceful nap when his flight landed for a connecting leg. He wasn’t entirely sure where, exactly, it was. His ticket had been legal, technically, but when you buy a seat using frequent flier miles that would have expired in the nineteen eighties if not for a fine-print loophole, you tend not to get priority flights.

 

He scanned the concourse monitor for his next leg’s departure terminal, keeping a tight hold on his carry-on--a duffel bag with his most important possessions. His flight number came up on the list, and, of _course_ , departure was listed in bold red: DELAYED.

 

Hefting his duffle onto his shoulder, he shuffled over to a courtesy desk.

 

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

 

The woman looked up from her computer.

 

“Can I help you?” she acknowledged him with a heavy drawl.

 

“It seems that my flight’s been delayed, and there’s no arrival time. Can you tell me anything about that?” he asked.

 

“I can sure look into it.”

 

Her long fingernails tapped against the keys, audible even in the crowded terminal.

 

She frowned at the screen and _hmmed_. “Well, it looks like there was an overbooking issue with your next flight. Lower priority customers are sometimes shifted when space is a concern.”

 

Stensland scrunched his nose up. “ ‘ _Lower priority’?”_

 

“But it looks like we have managed to squeeze you onto a new flight.”

 

“Wonderful,” Stensland breathed, tension leaving his shoulders. “What terminal?”

 

“I’m sorry, sir. That won’t be assigned until twenty four hours before your flight leaves.”

 

“Twenty f--” he spluttered. “Twenty four--how many hours are we from it now?”

 

“Ten days. It’s the next flight we have that’s stopping in Reykjavik.”

 

“WHY AM I BEING SHIPPED OFF TO ICELAND?”

 

“Sir, there is no need to yell.”

 

Stensland wheezed a few breaths, trying to reign in his heart rate. Mam always said you’d catch more flies with dog shite than honey, but people ain’t flies so be nice.

 

He slapped his hands onto the counter, palms down, and leaned his weight onto his wrists, bending in conspiratorially.

 

“There’s a way around that, though, isn’t there?” he said with a mostly-complete wink.

 

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” she said flatly.

 

“ _You_ know,” he wheedled. “Some sort of customer compensation for emotional difficulty.” Was he really going to have to flat out say that they kind of owed him a ticket straight to Ireland at this point?

 

“Of course, sir,” she said brightly.

 

“ _Thank_ you,” he groaned.

 

“We would be more than happy to comp your parking for the duration of your layover.”

 

 

> _“For this reason, we seek. Our whole lives we spend searching, only to pass over with abandon.”_ Pliney the Elder. _Collection of writings of the church_. Doubleday, 2008.

 

Stensland’s rental was honestly not awful. It had air conditioning and a working radio, which was about all he looked for in a vehicle. There was only one highway out of the airport, so he took it, figuring eventually it would lead to a hotel. Forty miles later, it hadn’t.

 

Jet lagged, hungry, and desperate for a piss, Stensland caught the distant glow of neon on the purpling evening horizon and turned toward it like a fly to an incandescent bulb.

 

The bar was nothing special. A typical pole-framed building housed a dozen or so tables and a full bar at the back. Stensland selected a seat at a table somewhere in the middle, and was pleasantly surprised that the top wasn’t sticky.

 

The most beautiful woman Stensland had ever encountered came by to ask if he wanted anything to eat. He didn’t, but dive food usually made him feel better so he picked something at random from a menu full of things he didn’t recognize. After the waitress left, he let his mind glaze over for awhile.

 

Heels clicked loudly on the wood floor, moving closer and stopping very near Stensland. It wasn’t enough to shake him out of his stupor. He continued staring numbly at the scarred wood table, and startled when a basket landed on the cloudy polyurethane in front of him. Thick cut french fries were coated liberally with marbled cheese and freckled with jalapenos, steaming hot and boasting so much grease that the paper basket liner was already translucent.

 

“If there’s anything else I can get for you, just let me know,” said the fry delivery angel.

 

Stensland heaved an enormous sigh and dropped his face onto his arms.

 

“Is that a request?” she asked, and she wasn’t smiling but she didn’t sound entirely unfriendly.

 

He bent his neck at an uncomfortable angle to look up at her without really lifting his head. She was extremely attractive, definitely Stensland’s type, with thick auburn hair and strong cheekbones. Even with her hair pulled into pigtail braids and dark shadows under her eyes, it was obvious that she had been a knockout her whole life. Posture like that was born of self confidence that you didn’t just develop. Stensland would know.

 

“Where the fuck am I?” he asked.

 

“You’re in fooking West Virginia,” she replied without missing a beat.

 

He dropped his head back onto his arms and groaned. “Please don’t make fun of me. I’ve had a difficult year so far.”

 

“Haven’t we all,” she said under her breath.

 

“Can I ask you a question?”

 

“Sure, go ahead,” she answered, and Stensland had to take a second because she had skipped the usual _you just did_ exchange he was expecting. People in the south really were friendlier sometimes.

 

“Why Duck Tape?”

 

She raised one eyebrow and smiled, a practiced show of perfect teeth and false joy. This woman had killed men before; Stensland was sure of it.

 

“It fixes everything. Just like whiskey.”

 

It would sure be nice if that was true. Stensland was willing to give it a shot, for whatever it was worth. He picked at his Texas Fries until they were cold and the cheese was gluey, then relocated to the actual bar.

 

He sidled up to a bar stool and lifted himself onto the seat using his butt cheek muscles and a little hop. The bartender, an enormous man with light skin, dark hair and beard, and serious expression, was dicing limes with one hand. The other held a cutting board and was some kind of mechanical prosthetic.

 

Stensland waited silently for the man to notice him. He shifted on the stool, crossing one leg over the other, and tapped out a rhythm against the bar with his thumbs. Seemingly oblivious, the bartender scraped the lime pieces into a glass bowl and wiped the counter with a rag.

 

Stensland cleared his throat. The bartender didn't respond. “Ah, excuse me?”

 

This got the man's attention. He met Stensland's gaze with eyes so dark and liquid brown you could drown in them like a vat of molasses.

 

“You were sittin’ there so quiet, I thought you were just enjoying the view.”

 

His voice was deep, even for a man his size. Stensland forgot words for a minute. “Ahm.”

 

“Did you want somethin’?”

 

“I wanted to drink. Um. Yes, a drink. Please.”

 

The man just stared at him.

 

“Do you not have those?”

 

The man glanced backward at the neat glass shelves lined with rows and rows of bottles. He turned back to Stensland and raised his eyebrows. “Gotta give me a little more to work with.”

 

Oh. Right, that made sense.

 

“Ah, I don’t really. Drink? Normally. Not alcohol--not often,” Stensland explained, increasingly tired and wondering if he should have just kept driving until he found a Ramada.

 

“Well, what do you drink that's not alcohol?” the man asked. He sounded friendlier, or maybe Stensland was just grasping for lifelines.

 

“I like strawberry milk,” he tried.

 

The bartender blinked at him a few times. “So you like sweet things?”

 

Stensland nodded enthusiastically. “The sweeter the better.”

 

“Do you like taste of liquor at all?”

 

Stensland's nose wrinkled. “It all tastes like turpentine.”

 

The bartender hummed, rubbing his thumb and forefinger over his beard. He shrugged and reached for a pearly white bottle with a gold top.

 

He poured a few ounces of the milky drink into a lowball and slid it to Stensland.

 

Stensland picked up the glass and examined it. It didn't seem too threatening. He took a deep breath, then took a sip. A river of sugary, creamy happiness poured across his tongue and down his throat. He groaned in pleasure, a terribly sexual noise that every one of his friends had warned him never to make again.

 

“I could drink only this for the rest of my life and be perfectly happy,” Stensland vowed.

 

The bartender snorted lightly, but he left the bottle out so Stensland was happy. The label was metallic white with gold lettering. _Rum Chata_. “What is this stuff?”

 

“Horchata and rum. Mostly cream and sugar.”

 

Running a finger down the side of the bottle, Stensland cooed at his new favorite drink.

 

The bartender appeared stoically unimpressed, but he still refilled the glass when asked.

 

Stensland found the silence companionable, and was content not to push the somber bartender into an awkward, forced conversation. Well, until drink four.

 

“What is with the name Duck Tape?” Stensland asked. “I asked your girlfriend and she really didn’t clear anything up.”

 

The bartender’s distractingly plush lips twitched. “Who, Mellie? She’s my sister. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

 

A slight flush rose along his neck behind the man’s ears, which Stensland did not understand.

 

“Okaaaay,” Stensland tried again. “Your sister didn’t clear it up. What does the name mean?”

 

The man twitched one shoulder up slightly in what might have been a shrug. For such an enormous person, his movements were all small and precise.

 

“It had that name when I bought it, and I didn’t see any reason to change it. So it’s Duck Tape,” the man said simply.

 

“And I’m Clyde,” he added, softer and perhaps shy.

 

Stensland shifted his weight on the stool, tucking one foot under the balancing ring and bracing the other on the floor.

 

“Are you by any chance related to Adonis?”

 

“Are you hitting on me?”

 

Stensland snorted. “Probably.”

 

“Can I ask your name first?”

 

“It’s Stensland. You can’t pronounce my last name so don’t try.”

 

By last call, Stensland had completely tanked, and was snoring on the bar with his head pillowed on his arms.

 

Mellie glared at the unconscious form. “Why’d you let him have so many?” she accused her brother.

 

Clyde shook his head. “He had four. I swear, one second he was buzzed and the next--” He gestured toward the tragic puddle that was Stensland. “That stuff ain’t strong. Never seen anything like it.”

 

“What are you gonna do with him?”

 

Clyde glanced over at the drooling man, then looked the other way, never meeting Mellie’s eyes. “Don’t know.”

 

“Well, call him an Uber,” she ordered, crossing her arms over her chest.

 

“Don’t know where to send him to. He didn’t say where he was stayin’.”

 

“And you’re going to…” she prompted.

 

Clyde scuffed the toe of his boot against the floor and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

 

Mellie growled and grabbed a handful of hair in each fist. “This is not like baby possums!” She punched him in the fleshy part of his inner shoulder. “You cannot take home every stray you meet.”

 

He turned liquid eyes up at her through his thick eyelashes.

 

“No,” she chastened, shaking her finger at him like a misbehaving dog. “I saw the way you were lookin’ at him. You are not gonna let him take advantage of you.”

 

Clyde stretched his neck, tilting his chin up obstinately. “Course not.”

 

“So you’re taking him-?”

 

“Home.”

 

“Clyde Jacob!”

 

“It’s just one night, Mel. What happened to your hospitality?”

 

Mellie sucked the inside of her cheek between her molars. She flared her nostrils and narrowed her eyes. “If he puts one toe out of line, I will enjoy every second of guttin’ him like a skinny little fish.”

 

“Understood.”

 

She marched toward the exit, flipping her braids over her shoulder dramatically. With one hand on the door, she spun back toward the bar.

 

“And one more thing,” she growled. “If he steals your tv, you can’t have another one of mine. I use them all. Every. Single. One.”

 

Then she was gone. Clyde was left to wrestle the lanky form into his truck alone.

 

 

> _“The meeting of a soulmate pair is as unique as the individuals. Some have reported instant attraction. Other have stated that the attraction grew over a period of weeks or months. Regardless, every first meeting has one thing in common: a feeling of connection.”_ Marks, Jennifer S. _The Soulmate Connection._ Journal of Sociology, vol. 45. 1965.

 

Stensland genuinely did not have the faintest idea where he was or whose bed he was in, but aside from the anvil trying to break through his skull, he wasn’t harmed. Someone had left water and white pills on the end table beside him, and he gratefully downed both. If they turned out not to be analgesics, well...he didn't think he would even feel more pain at this point.

 

Still hanging with head and an arm off the bed, he fell asleep again.

 

When he awoke the second time, he felt farther from death's door. Stretching out every joint and muscle with alarming cracking noises, he righted himself on the bed and looked around.

 

The room held no real clues. A yellowed popcorn ceiling met plain, white walls bordered with the same generic base molding installed in every tract house since 1960. The only furniture besides the bed he lay in was a second-or-third-hand dresser that was missing its knobs, and a set of stacked record crates serving as side tables. The only feature to indicate that the room was in someone's home was the quilt on the bed. It might have been handmade, though Stensland was hardly an expert.

 

The tantalizing scents of coffee and bacon wafted through the cracked door. Stensland followed them down a short hallway. He passed a living room with a sofa that had obviously been slept on, and into a kitchen, where the bartender from last night stood at an old gas stove juggling a spatula and several skillets with his typical expression of intense concentration.

 

“Where am I?” Stensland croaked, letting his shoulder fall against the door frame until his weight rested there. He swallowed a few times to get saliva moving down his throat.

 

“My house,” the bartender said. He didn’t look up, focused intently on whatever he was cooking.

 

“Ah, okay.” The bartender was not going to volunteer information, then. Stensland could play this game.

 

“What am I doing in your house?” he tried.

 

“Waiting on breakfast. Still needs a few minutes.” He tilted a skillet up to show the still-runny eggs inside.

 

“And how did I get here?”

 

“I drove you home from the bar.”

 

Either the man genuinely hated conversation, or he was hiding something. Stensland only hoped it wasn’t his own impending murder.

 

“Right. While I appreciate your hospitality, I think I really should be going.”

 

The bartender had the audacity to look hurt. “Before breakfast?”

 

Stensland was not getting anywhere with this conversation. Best to lay his cards on the table.

 

“I don’t know who you are, or why you brought me home, and I don’t really remember anything that happened last night. For all I know, you’re planning to fatten me up and kill me.” He folded his arms across his chest protectively.

 

“Well,” the bartender drawled, “I’m Clyde, which I told you last night. But you were pretty drunk, which explains why you don’t remember, I suppose. I brought you home because I couldn’t just leave you at the bar all night, and we don’t have a hotel in town. I was planning on feeding you breakfast first, but if you’d like I can drive you back to your car right away.”

 

Stensland narrowed his eyes, but let his arms fall back to his sides. His stomach growled angrily at the thought of leaving without food.

 

Clyde turned a few knobs and shooed Stensland to a small wood dinette set squeezed in a nook off the kitchen.

 

“There’s coffee in the pot,” Clyde said, sliding a pile of eggs from the skillet onto each plate. “Milk’s in the fridge. I think I have sugar somewhere, if you want it. I hope you like cayenne pepper. I like eggs to have some flavor.”

 

Stensland could tell Clyde was nervous and trying to be gentle, using a soothing voice, and _god_ it was so, so soothing. He was still talking, in that beautiful rumble, but all Stensland could hear was the low, growling tone like rushing water over river rocks.

 

But then the Clyde was looking at him with an eyebrow raised and he wasn't talking anymore, so that meant Stensland missed a question. Best to just nod and agree.

 

“Yes, of course, I agree entirely,” Stensland played along.

 

“...and it’s right by the bar so you can get your car after,” Clyde was saying, and right. The rental. The layover. The ruins of his life.

 

Stensland nodded and shoved an enormous fork full of scrambled eggs into his mouth so he wouldn’t be expected to respond.

 

He managed to keep quiet for several minutes, of which he was unduly proud. Strong and silent was his type, not his personality. He watched Clyde eat his own food, trying and probably failing at being subtle about it. The man was an Adonis; he had to be used to people staring. His biceps were larger than Stensland’s thighs. His right forearm was thickly corded with muscle rippling under the skin as he sliced a strip of ham. As for his left, that prosthetic was impressive. The fingers moved and reacted as part of Clyde’s body. It must have been grafted into his nervous system. He couldn’t even imagine what something like that would cost.

 

“Can I-” Stensland paused and chewed on his lip. It really wasn’t any of his business. “Can I ask how you lost your arm?”

 

Clyde leveled him with a soul-searching look, and Stensland felt compelled to spit out all of his secrets like a confession. Whatever he saw in Stensland must have been worthy, though, because even as he looked away to grab a napkin, he said, “Lost it in Iraq. Army.”

 

“Jesus,” Stensland breathed. He hadn't guessed that. Prying any further would definitely be wrong, and it was absolutely none of his business.

 

“What happened?” he pried. Developing tact was a job for future Stensland.

 

Clyde looked at him sideways, but not in anger. Confusion maybe?

 

“Wasn't anything brave or noble,” Clyde said, quietly, dismissive.

 

Stensland thought back to the only time he had ever come face to face with a gun. It hadn't been his proudest moment, to say the least. He couldn't even imagine actual warfare.

 

“I bet you were terribly brave, and nobler than King Arthur's knights,” he said sincerely. He didn't know what it was, besides that the man had taken home a total stranger, but Stensland believed with all his heart that this man was good and loyal all the way down to his core.

 

Clyde laughed, sharp and startled, but genuine. “I don’t reckon it was anything like that. Convoy was headed to the drop point where we’d get picked up to finally head back home. There was a boar lying in the road, and Sarge swerved to avoid it. Hit a mine. Could say I was lucky to only lose an arm, but-” He looked at the prosthesis and the corners of his mouth turned down.

 

Stensland looked at his own left hand and focused until the red knot appeared, trailing over the table and fading into nonexistence. He understood. Somehow, he felt an odd sense of kinship. Clyde was a gentle soul in the body of a Greek god, with a job and a home and family. Superficially they had nothing in common. In spite of all that, there was definitely a connection of some sort. Stensland was sure of it.

 

Breakfast ended all too quickly, and Stensland’s heart sank as he buckled himself into the passenger’s seat of Clyde’s truck. In a different life, he and Clyde could have been friends.

 

They pulled into the parking lot of a Lowe’s and Clyde shut off the truck. “You can come in with me, or you’re welcome to stay in the truck. I’ll just be a minute.”

 

Stensland just stared at him with absolutely no sign of recollection or understanding.

 

“I told you about it earlier. This is right on the way to the bar; I’ll just be a minute.”

 

Ah. That must have been what Stensland had tuned out. Damn, he had hoped it wasn’t something important.

 

“What is this place?” was all he could think to say.

 

The corner of Clyde’s mouth twitched. “Magic.”

 

He jumped out of the truck and Stensland followed, all the way through the store and to a counter that said it was for contractors. He wasn’t sure a hardware store counted as magic, but he had also never seen forty different types of toilet in one place, so perhaps it was. He had been raised to respect the Fae, who likely didn’t exist, so he wasn’t about to trifle with whatever magic was in giant stacks of plywood.

 

Clyde tapped the bell on the counter, and a few moments later a man in a red vest appeared from a back room. Without hesitation, the man grabbed Clyde in a bear hug.

 

“Good to see you, Bro,” the man said.

 

Clyde smiled. His lips were closed, but it was the most emotion Stensland had seen him show so far. It was a good look on him. Clyde returned the hug, clapping the other man on the back.

 

“I’m losing a sill plate,” Clyde said when they stepped back from each other. Stensland tuned them out and peered down the aisles he could see.

 

It really all just looked like wood. In theory, there were many different kinds of trees, but once they had been cut open like this, they all looked the same to Stensland. He tuned back into the conversation when Clyde set a hand on his shoulder. It was enormous and heavy, and inexplicably grounding.

 

“This is Stensland,” Clyde introduced. “My brother, Jimmy.”

 

They didn’t look anything alike; Clyde was olive toned with moles and dark hair, while the other man was ruddy and had sandy brown hair. Really the only similarity was physique: either one could have been an underwear model.

 

Stensland stuck out a hand. Jimmy took it, but his eyes stayed locked on Clyde’s.

 

“Really?” Jimmy said, disbelieving. He dragged his gaze away and looked Stensland up and down.

 

“Excuse me!” Stensland gaped at the audacious stranger.

 

“Hey, no offense,” the entirely offensive man tried to placate. “You just don’t seem like my brother’s type.”

 

Clyde turned dark red, which was odd since he could have just explained that they weren’t a couple. Stensland did it for him.

 

Back in the truck, Clyde wouldn’t stop apologizing. “I don’t know why he assumed. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it. He probably didn’t even think you were gay.”

 

“Well, I’m not,” Stensland said, offhand.

 

Clyde nodded and clenched his teeth.

 

“But I’m not offended if he thought I was. I’ve been with men. I guess I’m bi, if anything. Sometimes I forget.”

 

A muscle in Clyde’s jaw twitched. “You...forget that you’re bisexual?”

 

“I've never forgotten that I'm bisexual,” Stensland insisted. “Only, sometimes I forget that I'm attracted to men.” He tapped his thumbnail against the dashboard arhythmically. Perhaps, he wondered, if he had been willing to accept that side of himself, things could have gone differently with Grady.

 

“You’re going to have to explain that,” Clyde said, looking behind him as he backed out of the parking spot.

 

Stensland laughed sharply. “I grew up in Belfast. You’re Catholic, or you’re quiet. By the time we moved to Seattle it was just habit. Flirt loudly and publicly with conventionally attractive women and nobody looks at you twice.”

 

Clyde kept his gaze fixed straight ahead on the road. His adam’s apple bobbed up and down a few times.

 

“You shouldn’t have to pretend to be somethin’ you’re not. Not for anybody,” he said softly.

 

“That’s very sweet. Weren’t you in the army?”

 

“That’s how I know I’m right.”

 

“You’re a little corny, aren’t you?” Stensland told him fondly.

 

Clyde shrugged.

 

Gravel crunched under the truck tires as Clyde pulled into Duck Tape’s parking lot, which was a new experience for Stensland since arriving in West Virginia. Gravel roads were both distinctly rural and oddly homey. There was one glaring problem, though, that both men noticed before Clyde even turned off the road.

 

Stensland’s rental car was gone.

 

“No, no, no, no, nonono,” Stensland moaned, throwing one arm across his face.

 

“I don’t think it’s been stolen.” A tiny series of wrinkles grew between Clyde’s eyebrows as his face tightened in confusion. “There isn’t anybody around here that would do that.”

 

“No, I’m sure it hasn’t been,” Stensland agreed irritably. He whipped out his phone, tapping the screen while he waited for the gmail app to receive enough cell signal to load.

 

     Inbox (287)

 

 **RentLite** **Your Card has been decli…** \- Attention Mr. Stenslan…

     Groupon    Purchase Confirmed: Thank you for your purchase!

     service        Your Papa John's Online Order Confirmation 620827…

 

Stensland’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. Mentally steeling himself, he opened the new email.

 

     Attention Mr. Ceallaigh:

   

     Your card (---- ---- ---- 3996) has been declined for the purchase of additional rental days. As you are

     currently three (3) days past your rental contract end, we must request that you either       

     return the vehicle to the nearest RentLite™ location, or we will impound the vehicle. All RentLite vehicles

     are equipped with the latest in GPS tracking technology for your safety.

 

     Thank you for being a valued RentLite™ customer. If you have any further….

 

Clyde, who was stoically feigning great interest in the building’s gutters, looked back at Stensland only after the man let out an animalistic yell.

 

“Everything okay?” Clyde asked mildly. Stensland wondered briefly what it would take to rattle the unshakeable man.

 

“Something with my credit card, beasts canna call first. Don’t _want_ Iceland. Gonna be stuck in Bumfuck forever like as not,” Stensland whined.

 

Clyde just stared at him for a minute. “Am I Bumfuck?”

 

Hot tears welled up in the corners of Stensland’s eyes. He sniffed hard, hoping to pull all of his emotions back inside. “No, it’s not your fault. I just mean...” Thin strands of snot dripped into his mouth when he opened it, and he stifled a sob.

 

Clyde, who was still looking at Stensland like he might spontaneously combust, pulled his hands out of his pockets and opened his arms in an obvious invitation.

 

Stensland fell into the embrace without any hesitation. Strong arms wrapped around him and the flesh hand rubbed circles soothingly against his back. He gave up any pretense and just broke down.

 

Clyde murmured shushing noises and reassurances, low and nonsensical. He could probably rip Stensland into small pieces without breaking a sweat if he was so inclined, but in spite of his intimidating appearance, he radiated a sense of _safe_.

 

Stensland buried his face in the collar of the man’s tee shirt, unintentionally wiping snot and tears all over it. He tried to apologize but ended up crying harder. Clyde slid his mechanical hand down to Stensland’s lower back, pressing the two of them impossibly closer, and cupped the base of his skull with his flesh hand. Stensland shuddered. A warm sense of relief flooded from his spine and into his extremities. He felt Clyde turn his head, and what felt like a kiss was pressed into the hair above his ear. Breathing in deeply against the hot skin of Clyde’s neck, Stensland grabbed handfuls of the fabric under his fingers and clung tightly. His nose was stopped up and for some reason his left ring finger was burning.

 

Gradually the panic subsided, and he became more aware of his surroundings. Clyde’s neck was speckled with dark moles, and his skin was wet with sweat and Stensland’s tears. It would probably taste salty if he licked it. He could just...press his mouth right there, under his jaw. Live here in the protection of Clyde’s arms. He could…

 

Reality returned all at once like a hawk swooping in on its prey. Stensland was having a breakdown in the parking lot of a bar in front of God and everyone, slobbering all over a near stranger. Immediately, he released his grip on Clyde’s shirt and pulled away. His muscles trembled but he stayed upright, much to the pleasure of his shredded dignity.

 

Clyde’s tee shirt was covered in splotchy damp patches and wrinkles that might be permanent. The man himself, though, seemed unphased, if mildly confused.

 

“Did you get a ransom note?” Clyde ventured.

 

“What?”

 

“For your car.”

 

“Oh. No. No the rental place...they towed it. Credit card was declined for extra days.” Stensland looked away, knowing it was lack of funds. He had only just managed to scrape together enough to check a bag. A bag that didn’t make it out of the airport. In all of the upset over the layover, he just plain forgotten to retrieve the suitcase with all of his clothes. And with no forwarding address on file, he would never see it again. He threw his head back, eyes closed, and hopped in place. He was not going to start crying again, for crying out loud.

 

Stensland breathed hard for a minute with his eyes still closed until he felt more in control. When he opened them again, Clyde was in the same place, mechanical hand tucked under the opposite bicep. His other hand rested against his face, with the pad of his thumb pressed against his lips. Clyde bit his thumb nail, then pulled his thumb back and tucked it into his fist.

 

“What do you need me to do?” Clyde asked finally.

 

Stensland didn’t even know what he needed himself to do.

 

“You-- Nothing! Shit, you’re. Fuck. You’ve done more than you should have already,” Stensland stammered.

 

“No more than any decent person would.”

 

Stensland gnawed on the cuticle of his index finger and gazed off into the distance.

 

“At least let me take you somewhere.”

 

Stensland whipped his head toward Clyde, as if he had forgotten he wasn’t alone. “I don’t have anywhere to go.” He could feel Clyde’s stare, heavy with concern, but he couldn’t look at him.

 

“My flight was...well, they called it a layover. But ten days. Seems more like a cancellation, really. I didn’t plan on stopping off anywhere. I was headed back home--to Ireland. I don’t know what to do now. I’ve no hotel or car or, well, anything. Not even my check bag.” Stensland wanted to cry again but he was so drained he wasn’t sure he could even conjure up tears.

 

He jumped when Clyde clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Seems like you’re gonna have to stay with me.”

 

“I can’t pay you,” Stensland confessed. His lower lip was trembling and he couldn’t make it stop.

 

“Wouldn’t be right to let you.”

 

Stensland couldn’t believe the universe had been kind enough to send him straight into the arms of this incredibly handsome guardian angel. He almost wanted someone to punch him and prove it wasn’t a dream, but also he didn’t because being punched hurt a lot.

 

Stensland wanted to take him up on his offer immediately, before he could rescind it, but his ma would never forgive him if he didn’t observe proper etiquette. “Are you sure I won’t be a bother?”

 

“I don’t think you could be if you tried.” One corner of Clyde’s mouth twitched up in what was practically a smile. Stensland beamed in return, crooked and involuntary.

 

Clyde’s hand, still resting on Stensland’s shoulder, squeezed a reassurance and let go as Clyde stepped back. Stensland had to stop himself from leaning forward to follow him.

 

Clyde rubbed the back of his neck and squinted up at the sun as if it could tell him the time and the mysteries of the universe.

 

“I don’t have to open Tape until five,” he said, looking back at Stensland. His pupils were pinpricks after staring into bright light, little specks of black floating in motor oil. Stensland just hummed in reply, unsure if he was supposed to answer.

 

“So we’ve got a few hours to kill, if you wanted to do something.”

 

“Oh,” Stensland said dumbly. "Well, since I'm already here. What's worth seeing?"

 

Clyde nibbled on his bottom lip just long enough to tempt Stensland into doing the same. He jerked his head toward the truck and hopped in, expecting Stensland would follow.

 

A few miles down the road, Clyde pulled off onto the unpaved shoulder and threw the truck in park. Miles of empty fields stretched out around them. He turned to Stensland expectantly.

 

"What are we looking at?"

 

"West Virginia."

 

"...Ah."

 

Clyde huffed, maybe in laughter, or grave offense. It was hard to tell with him.

 

"This is what I love. Nature, undisturbed," he explained.

 

Stensland, oddly, was unsure what to say.

 

"C'mon." Clyde opened the door and jumped down in a practiced movement. Stensland clambered out after him. He jogged to catch up with the larger man's long strides.

 

"Where-uh!" Stensland yanked his leg free from a sticker plant. "Where are we going?"

 

Clyde caught him by the shoulders as his shoelace gave free from the angry weed and he stumbled.

 

"Nowhere in particular. Don't you ever go for walks just to relax?"

 

Stensland laughed too loudy. "No, I cannot say that I do that."

 

"No time like the present to start." Clyde stuffed his hands into the pockets of his shorts and slowed his pace enough for Stensland to keep up.

 

They walked for awhile in companionable silence. The sound of gravel crunching underfoot was comfortable, grounding. It made Stensland feel like new opportunities were on the horizon. Perhaps Clyde was onto something with his pointless hobby. Still, there were insects everywhere and if he wasn’t careful he would turn his ankle on the slope of the ditch.

 

"I would offer to show you around town, but there's not much to see." Clyde said after a time.

 

"That's okay. I'm not big on tourist things." Stensland raised his shoulders to his ears and dropped them back down again. "What do you do for fun around here? Besides drink, I mean."

 

"Make new drinks," Clyde said seriously.

 

"Please be joking."

 

"Of course I'm joking. I don't take my work home. 'Cept you."

 

"Well." Stensland nudged Clyde with his shoulder, finding a sore spot and unable to resist poking it. "Go on, then. Show me a good time."

 

Clyde turned to him suddenly, eyes wide. Stensland flushed brightly.

 

"You know what I mean," Stensland said, grasping for a redirection. "You have to have a hobby. And by the looks of you, it's niche and expensive."

 

"What about me says that?" Clyde asked, bemused.

 

Stensland leaned in and stage-whispered, "It's the moustache."

 

Without missing a beat, Clyde stuck a foot out and tripped Stensland, who hopped several paces before regaining his balance and glaring.

 

Clyde stared back solemnly. "You have to promise not to laugh."

 

"I will promise no such thing," Stensland vowed.

 

Clyde turned and marched back to the truck, Stensland trotting to keep up. They drove for a few miles, down more narrow roads and through more barren land. Finally, Clyde turned into a nondescript drive and headed down a dirt road. The road branched out at several points, none leading anywhere obvious, but Clyde seemed to know where he was going. Finally they came to a stop at one of the forks, and Stensland recognized Clyde’s house. He didn’t head toward it, though, instead veering off to an outbuilding that Stensland guessed was an old barn.

 

Clyde slid the weathered door open, revealing a hollowed out space filled with power tools. Many of them were unfamiliar to Stensland, never having been particularly handy, but he recognized some of the bigger pieces. A fair number of them were saws. Shelves lined an entire wall, holding stacks upon stacks of lumber. The entire place smelled like hamster bedding.

 

Clyde looked at him expectantly.

 

“Are you...building a new house?” Stensland guessed.

 

“Feels like it some days, but no. I started out just building pieces to fill in missing casework on the house, and it kind of just went off from there.”

 

That answered exactly none of Stensland’s questions, and added several more, including _what on earth is casework_. “What’s wrong with the house?” he asked instead.

 

“Nothin’s wrong. It’s just old, is all. Living room dates back to 1830 and the rest was added on later. Things get broken and removed. People want everything to look modern. I’m tryin’ to put it all back like it was.” Clyde leaned back against a workbench and folded his arms over his chest.

 

“That’s…” Stensland wasn’t sure what to call it. It was more ambitious than anything he had ever attempted in his entire life, and must require substantially more skill.

 

Clyde spun a small screwdriver between his fingers. “I know, it’s kind of crazy.”

 

That hadn’t been what Stensland was thinking at all. “What’s this?” He gestured toward a short wooden pole, thicker in some places than others, that was clamped between the two metal arms of a stout machine.

 

“That’s a lathe. I’m turning that spindle to test out patterns for the back stair rail.”

 

Stensland brushed his fingers over the smooth wood surface, following the contours down. “It’s beautiful.”

 

Clyde looked at him oddly, like he thought he was being mocked. He scrunched up his mouth and said, “thank you” to the wall as he turned away. Stensland didn’t know how a man as handsome and talented as Clyde could react so unused to compliments.

 

Stensland continued asking questions, delighted to watch Clyde grow more animated and enthusiastic. This Clyde felt like the opposite of a stranger who had taken him home from a bar. This Clyde fit into a space in Stensland’s chest cavity like a cat curled up into an empty box. It just felt right.

 

He hardly noticed time passing, but when Clyde nudged him out the door, the sun was already a good way down toward the horizon. Clyde offered to let him stay at the house while he worked, but Stensland wasn’t in the mood to be alone.

 

He sat in the same stool as the night before, but this time he was able to actually enjoy the place. Duck Tape was clean, well maintained, and nicely decorated--at least as much as a honky tonk bar could be. Stensland nursed a Shirley Temple and chatted with Clyde between customers. He allowed himself to be coerced into trying fried okra, which Clyde promised was a delicacy.

 

They got back to Clyde’s in the wee hours of the morning, whispering even though there were no neighbors for miles. It was the time of night that just felt like quiet should be maintained.

 

Stensland followed Clyde to a linen cupboard, where he watched the other man gather a handful of sheets and blankets and lug them toward the living room.

 

“Wait!” he called. Clyde stopped and looked over his shoulder.

 

“Are you going to sleep on the couch again?”

 

Clyde nodded.

 

“I’m not kicking you out of your bed. Not again, and not for ten days. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

 

Clyde shook his head firmly. “No, sir. I cannot put a guest anywhere but the best bedroom. And since this bedroom is the only one that’s got a bed in it, it’s the best.”

 

Darn that southern hospitality. “There’s only one solution, then. We share.”

 

Clyde’s cheeks turned pale, then dark red. “All right,” he said, almost too quiet to hear.

 

Thankfully, Stensland had packed enough spare clothes in his carry-on that he could get by for a couple of weeks as long as he had access to a laundromat. He didn’t fancy the thought of washing his underwear in a hotel sink.

 

He brushed his teeth in a small powder room near the front door, washed his face, and headed back to the bedroom. Clyde came out of the adjoining bathroom a few minutes later. Stensland was busy squeezing his phone charger into an outlet behind the bed, but he didn’t feel any additional weight on the mattress. He plugged his phone in with a triumphant _ha!_ and looked across the bed.

 

Clyde stood beside the bed on the other side, fidgeting. He looked at Stensland, then the door, then back again a few times. Stensland was about to ask him if something was wrong when he spoke up unprompted.

 

“I usually sleep with my shirt off,” he said, then blushed as if that was something shameful.

 

Thank goodness it wasn’t anything important. Stensland could not handle another crisis. He grinned at Clyde. “I usually sleep naked,” he confessed. Clyde’s adam’s apple bobbed up and down, but he didn’t say anything. “I won’t, though. Here. Don’t worry.”

 

“Whatever makes you comfortable,” Clyde mumbled, avoiding looking anywhere near Stensland as he turned down the covers. He did strip down to just his boxers though, which was a success as far as Stensland was concerned. He was already inconveniencing the man enough; there was no need to make him change all of his habits.

 

Stensland couldn’t help but stare at the newly-exposed landscape. Clyde was truly magnificent. He was broad all over, with wide shoulders leading to an equally wide chest with a sprinkling of dark hair that had been hinted at above the collar of his tee shirt. The hair thickened down his stomach and disappeared into the elastic waistline of his underwear. Every part of him hinted at muscle, but with a layer of softness over it. Under normal circumstances, Stensland wouldn’t know where to look first. The decision was taken from him by two glints of silver.

 

“Your nipples are pierced?” Stensland gaped.

 

Clyde hummed an affirmative as he started to fiddle with his prosthetic.

 

“That...those cannot be regulation.”

 

“Had ‘em done after I got discharged.” The arm snapped free with a series of clicks, leaving a mostly-bare stump. Clyde laid it gently on the crates beside him.

 

Stensland didn’t stare at his arm, partly out of politeness, but mostly because he couldn’t stop staring at his nipples. They were taunting him. Little, dusky brown nubs, run through with barbells. It was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

 

If Clyde noticed him staring, he didn’t say anything. With a simple _‘night_ , he clicked off the lamp, slipped under the sheets and closed his eyes.

 

Stensland also climbed under the covers, careful to stay on his own side of the bed. The room was dark, moonlight dampened by curtains over the small window, but he imagined he could still see the barbells sparkling on Clyde’s chest. He could not remember the last time he was this turned on by something so small. He prayed that Clyde couldn’t feel his pounding heartbeat through the mattress.

 

 

> _“Man screw soulmates. I just want to marry Lindsey, but she keeps saying we’re ‘not right to get married’. The hell does that even mean? We’ve been dating for four years and we’re ‘not right’? The fuck, universe?”_ Erik-iz-awesome. _Stupid Soulmates_. Blog post. Myspace, August 2006

 

Sleep did not come easily, but eventually he drifted off. He woke for the second morning in the plain room under the yellowed popcorn ceiling. This time, though, he wasn’t alone in the bed. And he was achingly hard.

 

Stensland shifted a bit, careful not to jostle Clyde. He wrapped a hand around himself through his briefs and grimaced at the squish of precum. At least he hadn’t shot off in his sleep.

 

Taking extra care to be quiet, he crept to the ensuite bathroom and closed the door. Breathing a sigh of relief that his host was still asleep, he braced himself over the toilet and rubbed out an embarrassingly fast orgasm. At least he didn’t have much time to feel guilty that all he could think about was Clyde.

 

On Wednesdays, Clyde explained over homemade waffles, Mellie took over the main duties at the bar. That meant they had the entire day free to do whatever they wanted.

 

Stensland didn’t have the faintest idea what he wanted to do. Back in Seattle, he would have smoked a bowl or three and sat in front of the TV until he forgot his own name. Clyde did not seem like the type of person who would appreciate the subtle nuances of his former lifestyle. For some reason, that notion didn’t bother Stensland.

 

He let Clyde drag him around Main Street all morning. As much as he might protest small town life, it wasn’t as uninteresting as he had always pictured. And in spite of looking a bit too much like Mayberry, nobody even looked twice at them despite Clyde’s habit of grabbing Stensland’s hand when he wanted to show him something. It was a bit too idyllic, perhaps, but charming regardless.

 

They stopped for lunch in an honest-to-god ice cream parlor. Stensland thought they were an urban legend invented by baby boomers to make millennials feel guilty for killing small business, or whatever it was this week. The flooring was a mixture of oak and black-and-white checkered tile, and the counter was obviously an antique. He sat across a round table with an ornate iron base, facing the most attractive man he had ever laid eyes on, and eating ice cream that had been hand dipped by a teenager wearing a candy cane pinstriped blouse. Not for the first time, he wondered if his plane had crashed and this was some bizarre fever dream conjured up by his lonely imagination.

 

That afternoon they went antiquing, which was both the gayest thing Stensland had ever done, and the first time he actually found antiques interesting. They probably just had better antiques here than on the west coast, was all. And of course, because this was the nineteen fifties, they went to a movie after dinner at the diner. It wasn’t a drive-in, although if it had been, nothing would have convinced Stensland that this was real life.

 

The only movie playing that looked at all interesting was a horror classic, rerun in honor of Halloween approaching. Stensland wasn’t normally a fan of horror films, but the special effects were pretty campy, and he kept getting distracted by Clyde’s profile lit up by the screen light.

 

Back at Clyde’s house, they settled onto the couch to watch Dawson’s Creek, since Clyde had never seen it. Three or four episodes in, Stensland couldn’t keep it in any longer.

 

“I like you,” he blurted out.

 

Clyde looked at him sideways. “I like you, too.”

 

“As more than a friend, I mean. I understand if it makes you uncomfortable, so please don’t feel pressured to say yes, but if you would be interested, I would like to go on a date with you.”

 

Clyde narrowed his eyes. The corners of his mouth twitched. Stensland braced himself for rejection.

 

“I thought that’s what we just did.”

 

“I--what? Oh. Ohhh.” Stensland was an idiot.

 

Clyde took him gently by the chin and pulled him in for a kiss. Just one, and chaste, but leaving no room for misinterpretation.

 

“You’re awfully cute,” Clyde told him.

 

That night, Stensland fell asleep with one hand on Clyde’s bicep. He slept better than he had in months.

 

 

> _“Little red string, where do you go?/ Up the road/ Down the river/ Through the freshly fallen snow/ Help me find my soulmate/ I’d like to meet them please/ Help me find my soulmate/ Before I turn into cheese.”_ Child’s Skipping Rhyme. Circa 1876.

 

Stensland woke for the second morning in the plain room under the yellowed popcorn ceiling. He turned to look at the man lying next to him. Clyde was looking back. He smiled his crooked, closed-mouth grin that made Stensland’s stomach do flips.

 

Like the day before, he was hard and aching. Unlike the day before, he could tell from the tented sheets that Clyde was, too.

 

“Good morning,” Stensland said, voice gravelly with sleep. He looked obviously down to Clyde’s erection and back up to his face.

 

Clyde stretched, making a point of thrusting his hips up and showing off the truly impressive bulge.

 

“Are you suggesting something?” Stensland asked.

 

“Nope.”

 

“Hmm. Pity.”

 

Stensland leaned in, framing Clyde’s cheeks in his hands. He rubbed his thumbs along the ridge of his prominent cheekbones, then kissed him hard. Clyde responded immediately, leaning up on one elbow and wrapping his other arm around Stensland to cup hand on the back of his neck. Clyde kissed exactly the way Stensland had imagined, firm and assured, and also impossibly better than the daydream version of himself had. Stensland brushed his tongue out, coaxing Clyde to open for him. Instead, Clyde pulled away.

 

“Shouldn’t we brush our teeth first?” Clyde whispered, sounding scandalized.

 

Stensland shook his head. “Fuck it.”

 

He kissed him again, slow and deep. Clyde’s breath was sour but the tickle of his beard sent shivers down Stensland’s spine and he tasted like man. Stensland had nearly forgotten that taste. He kissed away from Clyde’s lips, to the corner of his mouth, his jaw, and below his ear.

 

Clyde’s hand had migrated down to Stensland’s ass, rubbing firmly and dipping a finger down into the crack.

 

As Stensland rubbed his nose against the thick hair of Clyde’s sideburns, he laughed softly. “I think I’m supposed to demand dinner first,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows lasciviously.

 

“Fook it,” Clyde growled, and brought him up for another kiss.

 

Stensland pushed on Clyde’s shoulder and rolled them over. He shifted his pelvis until he was straddling Clyde’s hips, Clyde’s cock pressed against Stensland’s ass perfectly. He laid both hands on Clyde’s sternum and looked at him seriously.

 

“I haven’t been with very many men,” he admitted, “so you have to tell me if I’m terrible at it.”

 

Clyde made a noncommittal noise and grabbed one of Stensland’s hands, sucking the ring finger into his mouth.

 

“I mean it,” Stensland insisted. He leaned back slightly and ground his ass against Clyde’s dick.

 

Clyde moaned, deep and pornographic and likely mostly for Stensland’s benefit. It was effective; Stensland’s own cock twitched at the sound. He gripped it firmly at the base to remind it to calm down or this would end far too quickly.

 

“Won’t happen, but okay.” Clyde patted him on the hip. “Off,” he ordered, tugging on Stensland’s waistband.

 

Stensland shimmied out of his briefs, then tugged Clyde’s boxers down, too. The waist caught on the head, requiring some maneuvering to remove. Clyde’s cock bent down and sprang back up with enough force to smack against his abdomen with a wet _slap_.

 

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Stensland groaned.

 

Clyde’s cock bobbed up and down slightly with the twitch of his thigh muscles. The vein on the underside pulsed visibly. The entire thing was dark red, too large to stand up under its weight, and Stensland wasn’t sure he could even wrap his hand around the entire thing.

 

“What’s wrong?” Clyde panted, sounding genuinely concerned concerned despite his arousal.

 

Stensland threw an arm out to indicate the truly intimidating length in front of him. “Is that even real? How are you possible?”

 

Clyde frowned, making Stensland regret his entire existence. “Is there something wrong with it?”

 

“No, darling, no.” He sighed. “Of course not. It’s just that, that is not going to fit in me.”

 

Clyde eyes widened. “Oh, no. I didn’t think...I didn’t mean you had to--”

 

“Shhhhh,” Stensland hushed, leaning in to kiss him. He kissed slow and reassuring, until he felt Clyde relax.

 

He climbed back onto Clyde’s broad hips and began twirling his nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.

 

Clyde looked up at him, perplexed, which was not an expression Stensland generally wanted to see during sex. “You really like those, don’t you?”

 

“Oh, baby, I do. I really do.” Intent on getting rid of that expression on Clyde’s face, Stensland ducked his head and took one nipple, along with its accompanying barbell, into his mouth. He sucked hard and swirled his tongue around the nub, then teased it gently back and forth with his teeth.

 

Clyde bucked his hips, biting his fist to muffle the sounds he was making.

 

“Sensitive, aren’t you?” Stensland teased as he dove back down to attack the nipple again.

 

Releasing his fist just far enough to speak, Clyde said, “Weren’t before. That’s why I got ‘em pierced.”

 

Stensland hummed an acknowledgement, causing vibrations that tingled against his own lips. Clyde cried out, loudly this time, having forgotten to bite down on his fist again.

 

Stensland released the nipple with a consoling lick. “That’s it,” he purred. “I wanna hear how you like it.”

 

“ _Oh god_ ,” Clyde groaned through clenched teeth. Stensland rubbed up and down Clyde’s pecs and stomach with his flattened palms, making sure to catch the barbells between his fingers each time. He canted his hips to gain some much-needed friction, rocking back in an irregular rhythm. His cock drooled precum on Clyde’s stomach, which he gathered on his fingers to slick himself back up.

 

Clyde cried out incoherently, voice breaking on each bounce. “Need...more,” he ground out.

 

Stensland pumped the hand on his own cock faster. “Need more what?”

 

“ _Please!_ ”

 

The sight of this inhumanly strong and handsome man falling apart beneath him, begging him for release...Stensland almost lost control. He stopped pumping and just squeezed.

 

“What do you want, darling?” he panted.

 

Clyde’s eyes were closed and he was breathing hard through his mouth.

 

“Your mouth,” he gasped.

 

Stensland was positive this would test the very limits of his jaw, but he was never one to back down from a challenge. Well, in bed.

 

He scooted down the bed on his knees until his face was level with Clyde’s pelvis. He took a deep breath, psyching himself up. At first, he wasn’t sure he could even get his mouth around it. Holding it upright with one hand, he tentatively licked the head. He dipped his tongue into the slit and swirled it around a few times. Clyde was making appreciative moans of encouragement. Feeling bolder, he opened his mouth as wide as it would go. The head fit, but without much room to spare. He tucked his lips over his teeth--he knew to do that much--and continued licking as much as he could reach.

 

“You’re doing so good, so good,” Clyde was saying above him.

 

Stensland preened. He dipped his head further, sliding as much as he could back toward his throat. He was doing alright until the tip bumped against the ring of his throat. He gagged hard, choking and coughing as he pulled off. Fat tears welled up in his eyes and his face felt hot with too much blood. Somewhat distantly, he could hear Clyde talking, but not much was making it through.

 

He felt himself being dragged up the bed, where he was propped up with his arms raised. As the coughing subsided, the words started making sense.

 

“--sorry. I’m so sorry, honey. I should’ve warned you. I’m so, so sorry.”

 

Stensland held up one hand as he took a deep breath, appreciating the ability to do so.

 

“Not your fault,” he croaked. Clyde looked about to protest, so Stensland laid a hand over his mouth. “You did not make me do anything that I didn’t want to do. If I have to learn the hard way, I’m glad it’s with you.” He lowered his hand, allowing Clyde to answer. Clyde just looked at him, corners of his mouth downturned and eyes shining.

 

Stensland sighed and pressed their lips together, mostly still until Clyde finally responded. He kissed back hesitantly at first, but Stensland persisted. His erection, which had flagged with the lack of oxygen, perked back up without much coaxing. Slotting one leg between Clyde’s, Stensland kissed and rutted against him until he was hard again, too.

 

He pulled back a few inches, a string of saliva still connecting their mouths. “Now,” he said. “I would very much like an orgasm, and I would like it more if it was with you.”

 

Clyde nodded, slight but noticeable.

 

“Do you have any other ideas?”

 

Clyde nodded again, harder this time. He scooted up, shifting until he was in a sitting position. He pulled Stensland up at the same time as if he didn’t even notice the extra weight. Stensland leaned back with his thighs against his calves, knees folded under him. Clyde repositioned him until their cocks lined up. Taking them both in one hand, he pumped up and down slowly. Catching on, Stensland wrapped his own hand around Clyde’s and followed his motions.

 

He pulled Clyde in for a kiss with his other hand, massaging the back of his head as they continued to stroke. They probably should have used lube:  the friction bordered on pain for Stensland, and Clyde didn’t have a foreskin to buffer the grip. It didn’t seem to bother Clyde, though, and Stensland found it kept him nicely on the edge.

 

Clyde sped up the pace, and within moments Stendsland was coming hard all over their fists. He didn’t have much time to feel guilty, though. Clyde closed his eyes and pumped harder, adding a twist at the head. Soon he followed Stensland over, spurting high and with much more volume than Stensland.

 

Stensland rolled off of Clyde, mostly to cool off. He turned his head back and laid it against Clyde’s shoulder. In exchange he received a kiss on his forehead.

 

“That was...more eventful than I expected,” he said, slurring his words and he started to drift off.

 

“I never should’ve asked you to--” Clyde started again.

 

Stensland reached out blindly, trying to find his mouth. “Nuh uh, nope. We did this already. I will happily choke on your monster dick every day if it makes you happy.” The moment it was out of his mouth, his heart skipped a beat. He was always too much too soon. Had he really just ruined a potential relationship after just one fuck?

 

Clyde didn’t seem disturbed. He reached out with his whole arm and tugged at Stensland’s shoulder. “C’mere.”

 

Stensland let himself be rolled and collapsed happily into the tight embrace. Clyde was an excellent pillow.

 

They napped for nearly an hour, thoroughly worn out. Once they had peeled themselves apart, they showered and dressed. Much to Stensland’s chagrin, the showers had to be separate. Clawfoot tubs were not made to be shared.

 

Stensland followed Clyde around the workshop until it was time for work. Again, he came with him to the bar, and they fell into bed already half-hard and rutting. It was security and happiness, and Stensland had never dreamed those would feel so good.

 

 

> _“Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow,_
> 
> _Side by side, in their nameless graves, the soulmates are sleeping._
> 
> _Under the humble walls of the little catholic churchyard,_
> 
> _In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed”_
> 
> Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. _Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie_. E.P. Dutton & Co., 1856.

 

By the end of the week, Stensland had become completely integrated into Clyde’s daily routine. Nothing resembled his life in Seattle at all, but it somehow felt completely natural. Stensland now knew how to drive a manual, had carved a piece of fretwork on a scroll saw, and had opinions about the smoking techniques of summer sausage.

 

Clyde’s sister Mellie still hadn’t warmed up to him, but his brother Jimmy treated him like family. He had even been asked to attend Clyde’s niece’s recital, and Clyde swore he hadn’t pulled any strings for the invitation. He fit here, in a way he never had before. Maybe it was the town, but he didn’t think so.

 

He didn’t want to make things bittersweet by thinking about the end, but his layover was halfway over. When Clyde asked him to run to town for some eggs, he managed to get to the grocery store and back without any directions. And possibly a concern, he was already beginning to think of Clyde’s house as _home_.

 

At the bar that evening, he drank something called a limonata and listened to family stories from Jimmy, who stopped by on his nights off.

 

“And for an entire year, he painted all of his nails pink,” Jimmy said.

 

“That’s my favorite color.” Stensland beamed at Clyde, who pretended not to notice either of them.

 

“Okay, okay okay, let’s see. Oh! Winter dance, junior year. Always happens on the last weekend before break. He went with Justin McElroy, right? Well, the very next semester, Justin came back as Melanie and revealed she was a lesbian. My brother here cried for two days, thinkin’ he turned her gay.”

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Stensland sympathized.

 

Clyde’s ears were bright red. “It seemed logical at the time.”

 

“In his defense, we didn’t have much in the way of sex ed growin’ up. You put a condom on a cucumber and you pass.”

 

“I was in love with Orlando Bloom for seven years,” Stensland offered. “I dyed my hair blond so I would look like him.”

 

Jimmy squinted at him. “I’m not sure I can picture that.”

 

“Please don’t. Turns out bleach doesn’t work very well on red hair. I looked like a scarecrow in my yearbook photo.”

 

“Ouch.”

 

“People were asking me if I had gone to the wizard for a brain all the way up till I moved to the States.”

 

Stensland had never told that story before. He had never had a reason to, but he didn’t think he would have anyway.

 

Later that night, buried to the hilt in Clyde’s ass, he couldn’t stop wishing he didn’t have to leave.

 

 

> _“The question of course, becomes one of fate. Who or what is the one pulling strings? Is it a mere quirk of biology? A metaphor that somehow manifests and spreads across cultures? From the earliest of written records we have evidence of soulmates. But just who is responsible?”_ Gonzalez, Hector _. The Role of Fate in the Twentieth Century_. Atlantic Publishing, 1991.

 

On Sundays the bar was closed, which made it Clyde’s official day off. He and Stensland celebrated with a Lord of the Rings extended edition marathon.

 

“Sam was so in love with Frodo.” Stensland sighed and shoved another handful of M&M’s in his mouth.

 

“You think so?”

 

Clyde seemed distracted. He wasn’t actually doing anything on his phone, screen gone dark ages ago, but his focus wasn’t on the movie.

 

“Don’t you?”

 

Clyde shrugged.

 

“Don’t you think they were soulmates?”

 

“Never thought about it.”

 

Stensland let it drop and watched Shelob wrapping Frodo up in webs. It was still nagging him, though. When Clyde got up to change to the next disc, he broached the subject again.

 

“Do you believe in soulmates?”

 

Clyde grunted. “Guess so.”

 

“Do you ever wonder what yours is doing?”

 

“No.”

 

“Never?”

 

Instead of answering, Clyde leaned over to grab the remote from the coffee table and pause the movie. “What’s this about?”

 

“I just wanted to know if you ever worried that you were cheating on your soulmate.” It sounded silly, now. He still needed to know.

 

Clyde sighed, leaning onto his elbows braced on his knees. “No. I do not worry about my soulmate, because I do not have one.”

 

A weight lifted from Stensland’s chest, though he felt guilty about it. “I don’t either.”

 

“Maybe fate is bullshit,” Clyde said blandly. He looked less upset, though.

 

“Yeah. Probably is.” Stensland curled up against Clyde’s side and pulled a blanket over them.

 

 

> _“Everyday we walk closer to our soulmate.”_ Polish proverb. 1517.

 

The last day of Stensland’s layover coincided with a hootenanny at Duck Tape. It was Mellie’s idea, and terribly cheesy, but the turnout was good. There was loud dance music and half price drinks all night.

 

Stensland slid onto an empty stool next to Clyde, tilting it precariously for a moment. On this side of the bar, the music wasn't quite as loud, or the people as tightly packed.

 

“Whew!” he panted, brushing sweaty strands of his bangs off of his forehead. “That Cara sure puts a man through his paces, yeah?” He laughed and shook his head ruefully, mind still half on the dance floor.

 

Clyde didn’t acknowledge him, sitting with his shoulders hunched over in a way that made his entire body visually droop. With his real hand he tipped his empty bottle on its side, then rolled it back and forth on the bar top with two prosthetic fingers. The soft grinding noise of the roll was interrupted by tinkling thunks as the glass passed over gouges in the wood.

 

Stensland wasn't even sure he could hear it over the ambient noise, or if his brain was filling it in from sight, but it set him lightly on edge either way. He reached out, trapping both the bottle and Clyde's hand, and drawing in his attention.

 

“Baby? What’s wrong?”

 

“I think we need to talk.”

 

Stenslands heart slid down into his stomach and landed like a lead weight.

 

“You met me at a very anomalous time of my life,” Stensland said, voice wobbling but sentiment firm. He was absolutely resolved not to cry for at least two sentences this time.

 

“That ain't quite how that quote goes,” Clyde replied softly.

 

Stensland scrunched up his eyebrows. “What quote?”

 

Clyde shook his head. “Never mind.”

 

This wasn’t how Stensland wanted it to end. He wasn’t ready.

 

“You're a very special man, Stensland. I have been privileged to have had you as a part of my life.” Clyde’s voice was flat and his eyes never left the rolling bottle, “but I feel it would be better for the both of us if we parted ways.”

 

Oh god, he must have rehearsed it. This was actually a first for Stensland--most of his rejections were borne of spontaneous anger. He honestly preferred the vitriol, so long as nothing sharp was thrown at him in the process.

 

“You're breaking up with me?” Stensland asked, voice rising nearly an octave at the end. Already his neck was burning in the telltale precursor to his entire body turning red. It wasn’t dignified, but there was always a chance he misunderstood.

 

“Was I not clear?” Clyde asked, and there wasn’t even a trace of mockery. He actually was concerned that he hadn’t stated something right. Even when dumping someone, that great oaf was nothing but considerate and sincere. It was no wonder Stensland was in love with him…

 

Oh, fook him sideways. Stensland was in love with him. And this time, he was pretty sure it wasn’t just a contact high from being noticed.

 

“What did I do?” Stensland knew he probably sounded desperate, but he felt desperate.

 

Clyde dropped the script and took Stensland’s hands. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” He looked almost as miserable as Stensland felt, and how was that fair?

 

“Then why are you doing this?” Stensland could feel his face scrunching up. He was going to cry. First he was going to get dumped, then he was going to cry in front of a hundred people. He wondered if he had squished a bug that was actually a reincarnated monk or something.

 

Clyde looked like he might cry, too. “I want you to be happy.”

 

“This is not how you do that!” He was making a scene. His voice was at least an octave too high and twenty decibels too loud. He didn’t care.

 

“I want you to be able to move on with your life when you’re in Ireland, and you can’t do that if you’re stuck on something you left here.” A tear ran down Clyde’s cheek, tracing the path that Stensland had traced so many times. He could almost feel the wetness on his fingertips.

 

“And you had to break my heart for it?”

 

Clyde froze, not even visibly breathing. “I...what?”

 

“Are you really that stupid?” Stensland was being mean and he didn’t care.

 

“You never said--”

 

“You never said either! Why is it on me?”

 

“Maybe I am that stupid, because I don’t know what we’re fighting about anymore.”

 

“I love you, you enormous idiot.”

 

“That’s what we were arguing about?”

 

Stensland wanted to slap him. Never a fan of physical violence, he threw his arms out to the side in exasperation instead. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

 

The music in the background was a repetitive, twanging beat overlayed with a nasal vocal track. People were laughing and dancing. It was a beautiful night, cool and clear. Stensland was vibrating with an overwhelming mixture of emotions. He regretted ever coming to this stupid town. He never wanted to leave.

 

Clyde dragged Stensland into a tight embrace, resting his cheek on the perpetual bedhead. Stensland melted into the hug, letting it block out everything around him.

 

“I love you,” Stensland thought he heard him whisper. Or “olive juice”, Stensland wasn’t positive. He leaned away enough to see Clyde’s face. “What?”

 

Clyde lifted one hand from Stensland’s back and cupped his cheek, brushing the pad of his thumb against the freckles as if he could wipe them away. “I fell in love with you that very first night here.”

 

“Because I blacked out and drooled on the counter?” Stensland asked, incredulous.

 

Although Clyde looked down and away, he smiled. A real, happy, teeth-exposed smile. It was still crooked, and his eye teeth were cockeyed, and it was so beautiful Stensland wanted to cry even more than he had before.

 

“Naw,” Clyde said. “It was everything that came after that.”

 

“Oh my _god_ that is the most cliched romcom line I have ever heard. I cannot believe I fell in love with someone so cheesy.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

 

Gently, much more gently than someone with woodworking callouses should have been able to, Clyde brushed the tears away from Stensland’s cheeks. He hadn’t meant to let them fall.

 

“I can’t ask you to stay.”

 

“Why not? I don’t even want to go to Ireland. It's not a vacation. The only thing left there for me is my da who stopped calling when I was twelve. I’m only going to Ireland because…” There Stensland trailed off.

 

Why was he going to Ireland? Because of the greater concentration of pasty, ginger-haired people, meaning he wouldn’t stand out? Because he’d got his feelings hurt and he was running away from them, just like always?

 

“Because I don’t think there’s anything left here for me,” he finished. It wasn’t a good reason. It had never been a good reason. He sort of hated himself for it, now that he was forced to rationalize his motives out in the cruel light of day. Or, not day. The cruel light of the pendants over the pool table.

 

Clyde reached out and grabbed his wrist, stopping his fingers where he had been picking the rubber off of his sneaker toe. Stensland could feel him staring. He forced himself to look up.

 

He met those dark eyes, with the intense stare he had that could strip your skin right off. In the dim bar light they were the color of crude oil, pupil and iris blending. He got lost in those eyes every single time he looked. Ten days, ten years or sixty, there would never be enough time to lock eyes with this puzzle box of a man and really understand what he saw. Even here, now, he had no idea what Clyde was going to say. Maybe it was the answer to every question he had thought but not given voice to.

 

“Do you want there to be?” Clyde’s voice was soft, pitched lower than usual.

 

“More than anything.”

 

Clyde took both of Stensland’s hands in his own, nearly encasing them with how much larger they were.

 

“In that case, I would be honored to be the reason that you stay.”

 

Praying he would never wake up from this dream, Stensland had the sudden realization that he didn’t actually have anywhere to live if he did stay.

 

“Can you help me find an apartment? Do you think anyone will let to me, not having a job yet?” The panic was setting back in.

 

“Don’t think you’ll need to.”

 

“How do you figure?”

 

Clyde leaned in conspiratorially. “That nice waitress tells me the bartender is a sucker for pretty boys with low alcohol tolerance.”

 

Stensland laughed loudly, then slapped a hand over his mouth to quiet himself, shoulders shaking. It wasn’t that funny, but with the adrenaline quickly leaving his system, his emotions were out of control.

 

Clyde took pity on him. “Do you want me to suck you off in the bathroom?”

 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

 

 

> _Twitter user @clydeland. Photograph of two men sitting by a fountain and kissing. 22 Oct 2018. Author’s personal collection._

 

Three months later, Clyde sneaked off on a mystery errand and told Stensland not to follow him. If he had been anyone else, Stensland might have been worried.

 

He came back several hours later, holding his full arm behind his back.

 

“Close your eyes,” Clyde instructed.

 

Stensland obeyed, only peeking a tiny bit.

 

When told to open his eyes, he was greeted with Clyde’s right hand. A peeled-back bandage revealed a simple red tattoo on his ring finger, looping his finger twice and topped with a nicely shadowed thread bow.

 

“I say we should make our own fate,” he said.

 

Stensland threw his arms around his lover’s neck and kissed him. And for once, he didn’t even need to find words.


End file.
